Cumulonimbus Calvus
by Idlewild
Summary: Of course Sherlock would never let anyone know he has a phobia. Anyone, that is, except John. One stormy day, John comes home to find Sherlock shaking behind the sofa, and it turns out he is absolutely terrified of thunder. John is there to comfort him. Can be read as canon or pre-Johnlock, depending on slash-goggle adjustment.


They always watch the evening news. Most days, John will already be camped out on the sofa in front of some admittedly inane show or other, but he always switches over to BBC at six o'clock sharp. Sherlock will come sauntering over from wherever to join in the information intake. It's the only thing on the telly that even remotely interests him; after all, there might be a mention of some new and intriguing crime for him to jump up and pester Lestrade about. Every now and then he finds "cases" in ordinary news items with no connection to actual criminal activities, and John secretly enjoys the way he yells at the small machine for failing to point out things of such obvious salience, the way he flails his arms around like a mad bat in his dressing gown, the way he comes to life after even the dullest day. John might scold him for making him miss what the next story is about, but they both know it's just for show.

Yet when the weather comes on, Sherlock always falls silent. If John tries to switch channels – he honestly couldn't care less about the relative likelihood of sun and precipitation, and anyway, they're almost always wrong – then Sherlock will launch himself across the room and snatch up the remote. John has long since accepted this as yet another incomprehensible quirk of nature in the odd man he has the somewhat dubious pleasure of sharing a flat with, and so will humour him by sitting quietly until the forecast is over. If he sometimes forgets himself and pipes up about tea ahead of time, he is inevitably shot a most menacing glance. There is this thing Sherlock's eyes do that makes it virtually impossible for John's vocal chords to keep making sounds. It's eerie.

* * *

Tonight, Sherlock had been hunched over his microscope for five and a half hours straight, refusing to look up as John bustled about making a peanut butter sandwich after work and later chicken pasta for dinner. Due to all the petri dishes littering the kitchen table and Sherlock's silent but exceedingly expressive outrage at his attempt to move a few of them off a corner, John ate his dinner in his armchair. He would have opted for the "desk" or the sofa table had they not also been more of less hidden under random junk.

'Sherlock, why is it that every time I go to work for more than a week on end, this flat turns into a rubbish dump?' he enquired. He knew Sherlock wouldn't reply, but he also knew he would hear him. 'I'm not the only adult in this household, am I? And to quote Mrs Hudson, I'm not your housekeeper either.'

Not so much as a hum from the kitchen. 'Sherlock,' rising with his empty bowl in hand, 'some indication of sentience, please?' He thwacked him lightly on the back of the head with his fork in passing. 'Oh, who am I kidding? You'll never be an adult.'

'Yes, because hitting people with cutlery is a universal sign of infinite maturity…' Sherlock muttered without looking up from whatever he was doing.

'It speaks!' John exclaimed, dumping his dish and the silly utensil in the sink. Just then, the TV presenter started introducing the next show, and John realised that it was six o'clock.

He stomped back to his chair and flicked over to the news channel, and as surely as a Pavlovian dog, Sherlock abandoned his experiments to mosey on over. He flung himself dramatically onto the sofa, somehow managing to take up its full length despite being seated in the middle. John rolled his eyes but made no further comment on the ridiculous extent of his flatmate's limbs.

The news was dull this evening, and John decided to make tea while they were blathering on about economic crises. As he came back with a cup in each hand, the screen was just showing the meteorology intro, and he set one cup down precariously atop a stack of journals, figuring Sherlock would be too absorbed with altostratus clouds and wind strength to take it anyway.

As it turned out, the weather was easily the most interesting part of the entire program, as the buxom presenter animatedly detailed the imminence of thunderstorms all over the Greater London area for the next day. John was childishly fascinated with that type of weather and found himself listening nearly as intently as Sherlock always did.

'That's lovely,' he grinned to himself. 'Finally the end of this awful heat wave! About time too, I was getting sick of...'

He looked over at Sherlock and promptly trailed off with a '...what?' Sherlock was sitting forward on the sofa now, a far cry from the spread-eagled relaxation of thirty minutes ago, elbows on knees and chin on thumbs with his fingers steepled in his usual indication of rapt attention. His gaze was fixed on the TV yet distant at the same time.

'Come on, Sherlock, even you can't possibly have found anything exciting about those news, can you? Unless there was something crucial to crime solving in the Environment Agency's new – '

He broke off as Sherlock abruptly stood, narrowly avoiding upending his untouched teacup all over the table, and dashed off to his room. Sighing to himself, John finished his tea and took both cups back to the kitchen.

* * *

Sherlock stayed in his room for the rest of the evening save for one brief visit to the bathroom. John was afraid to ask what was going on lest it was something revolting – that deeply contemplative look from earlier normally meant he was concocting some nefarious scheme. Usually something to do with eyeballs. Or acids. Or both.

Since he had another half-day of work ahead of him before his "week-end" – in this case Wednesday and Thursday – John went to bed early. When he came padding downstairs the next morning, Sherlock was still in his room. John wondered if he had climbed out the window at some point during the night, because things were worryingly calm. However, after John had cleared a patch of table for breakfast and was enjoying the unusual peace and quiet, the stealthy but unmistakable tread of his friend sounded behind him.

'Are you going out today?' Sherlock asked by way of greeting.

'Good morning to you too…' John replied around a mouthful of cereal. He knew that talking with his mouth full annoyed Sherlock greatly, but right now he didn't really care. Sherlock scoffed and walked around the table to make himself coffee.

'You're up early,' John continued, 'Have a good night?'

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible and leaned back against the counter with his cup. 'Well?' he prompted.

'Well, what?'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in that way of his which seemed to enquire why everyone but him was such an imbecile, and John endeavoured to remember if there was something he was expected to say or do. After only half a cup of caffeinated beverage, his brain wasn't doing him any favours, but he finally remembered Sherlock's earlier question.

'Today's Tuesday, and I said I'd work Monday through Tuesday, so yes, I'm going "out". Why? Got anything planned?'

All he got by way of response was the top of Sherlock's head as he studiously regarded his coffee. John contemplated throwing out a "Well?" of his own but thought better of it. If Sherlock didn't tell you something at once, that generally meant you didn't really want to know anyway; in fact, even when he did tell you stuff you often didn't want to know it. Besides, John wasn't up for any more denigrating looks this side of lunch.

He finished his breakfast and went to do the washing-up. As he placed his bowl on the draining board, he wondered why Sherlock hadn't yet berated him for moving his precious cultures around. He decided against asking about that too for fear of setting any griping in motion and instead turned to ask if he could wash Sherlock's cup while he was at it.

He only got as far as 'You want me to…' before he noticed that said cup was still mostly full – and that the hands holding it seemed to be shaking. 'Are you okay?' he asked instead.

There was a beat before Sherlock replied with a 'Fine, John,' which John took to mean the exact opposite. He might have pressed the matter if he hadn't already been pressed for time, so instead he just said 'Good, fine…' and turned to go get dressed.

As he was putting a foot on the stairs to his room, Sherlock's voice sounded behind him.

'When will you be home?' He sounded uncertain, speaking in a softer and slightly slower voice than usual, and it made John turn to regard him carefully across the hallway and kitchen. He looked pale. Well, paler that normal. And sort of… shifty? No, nervous. Sherlock Holmes looked nervous? John only barely restrained himself from repeating his earlier question and answered Sherlock's instead.

'About two? Depends how swamped we are – maybe three, no later." After a second more of studying the confounding face his flatmate was making, he added 'Is that all right?'

Abruptly, Sherlock seemed to snap out of whatever funk he'd been in as he slammed his cup down on the counter.

'Of course it's all right! I'm not some child,' swirling around and disappearing into the living area.

John was left to shake his head in confusion. Really, just as he thought he was beginning to fathom the unfathomable, something like this had to jump out and hit him right between the eyes. Oh well, hopefully Sherlock wouldn't burn down the house or cause any other such disasters in the six hours before he got home.

Fifteen minutes later, John donned his jacket and turned to Sherlock who was standing at the window, looking out into the street with his violin in one hand. 'I'm off now. There's some chicken pasta left in the fridge. It's in the blue Tupperware above the spleen. You should eat it – not the spleen, the pasta. You had nothing for dinner yesterday, remember?'

Sherlock made a noise that filled largely the same function as an eyeroll.

'Okay, well, see you later, then,' John said with a hint of exasperation, trudging off down the stairs.

* * *

There _was_ thunder that day, which, if nothing else, made for excellent small talk material during the coffee break – "Blimey, they were right for once!" / "Wonder if we'll get any casualties?". It started around noon and seemed to be getting louder and nearer as John's shift drew to an end.

As he was lugging the groceries home at ten past two, the first drop of rain hit him on the forehead, followed almost immediately by a torrential downpour made up of what seemed to be equal measures of hail, rain and small anvils. For once, John nearly wished for one of Mycroft's cars to sidle up to him, but no luck. Then there was a lightning bolt followed within seconds by a clap of thunder that made John grin madly despite being rapidly reduced to a puddle in shoes.

When he got through the door, there was nary a dry inch on his body. Cold water was trickling from his hair and running down his spine. He half ran up the stairs, still with a wide grin on his face, expecting some dry comment from Sherlock about not dripping on his experiments. None came. In fact, it appeared Sherlock was out getting drenched like a cat himself somewhere, for he was nowhere to be seen as John plonked the bags down on the kitchen floor. The flat was quite dark despite the time of day, due partly to the black clouds covering the world and partly to the lack of lamps lit.

There was another thunderbolt, loud even through the solid brick walls of Baker Street, and over it John thought he could hear his own name called. From the living room, oddly, since he hadn't seen a soul in there coming home.

Dripping copiously, he followed the sound and spotted its source, wedged into the corner between the couch and the small side table, chin on knees and arms tightly wrapped around shins.

'Sherlock, what are you doing behind the sofa?'

There was no answer, but John found himself transfixed by Sherlock's gaze. It was nothing short of imploring. Something was obviously very wrong with this picture.

John shrugged out of his jacket and dropped it carelessly on the floor as he practically fell down in front of his flatmate. Putting his hands on his upper arms and maintaining eye contact, he exclaimed 'Sherlock, what's wrong? Did something happen? You could have texted me!'

Sherlock was trembling, he realised. Shaking, even. His eyes were decidedly red-rimmed and looking all the larger and paler for it. He opened his mouth to answer, then shut it again and widened his eyes as lightning momentarily illuminated the room. The thunderclap followed almost instantaneously, and Sherlock abruptly yanked his arms out of John's grasp to slam his hands over his ears. His eyes squeezed shut and he _whimpered_.

Suddenly cause and effect was clear even to John's rudimentary powers of deduction. He replaced his hands on Sherlock's arms, gently rubbing them up and down as he tried to calm his frightened friend.

'It's gone – look, Sherlock, it's quiet now. There's nothing to worry about; it won't hurt you. You know we're in a low building in the middle of a city and there are plenty of taller things for it to hit. Please, Sherlock, don't be scared, you'll be okay, it'll be okay...'

Sherlock's hands had fallen away from his ears, but his eyes were still tightly shut and he was shaking his head more and more vigourously. His breathing was speeding up, rapidly approaching hyperventilation. John changed the angle of his calming speech accordingly, a small part of his mind marvelling at the fact that for once logic and reasoning weren't getting through.

'Look, Sherlock, you've got to try to calm down,' he said in his most placid voice, the one he'd used in battle to soothe fearful comrades. Sherlock's eyes were open now but not meeting John's. 'Come on, try and take deep breaths. Listen, breathe with me, okay?'

He captured Sherlock's wayward eyes and breathed exaggeratedly in and out. This seemed to be working moderately well for a while, but then there was another crash of thunder, entirely simultaneous with its lightning, and without any warning Sherlock launched himself at John. He nearly knocked him over, but stopped that motion by flinging his arms around him and holding on for dear life. His chest was heaving irregularly under John's perplexed hands, his face buried in his wet jumper. His voice was all staccato as he gasped 'I cant – I can't…' over and over.

John cursed inwardly as he realised that this was turning into a full-blown panic attack and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. He rubbed his hands over Sherlock's back, mumbling nonsense words of comfort in the hope that his voice might bring some solace.

They were sitting rather awkwardly, both on their knees and almost directly in front of each other, but when John tried to shift into a more comfortable position, he found himself caught in a veritable vice of slender arms. There was nothing to do but wait for the storm to pass.

Once John got over the initial surprise of seeing Sherlock like this, another realisation started creeping up on him. He was locked in an embrace with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, who never hugged anybody. While notoriously oblivious to the concept of personal space and acceptable inter-individual distance, he rarely even touched anyone unless a case somehow called for it. Now that he thought about it, the only person he ever seemed to touch for other, more human reasons was John himself. A small part of him was awed and very pleased with this sudden insight, but the rest of him was focussed on their current situation. Worry and empathy coiled in his stomach and got somehow channelled into an outward calm. Strangely, the more hysterical Sherlock was, the more composed John became. Some sort of emotional scale that needed to be balanced appeared to be at work here.

And that was the other baffling thing: emotions. Fear was a feeling, and one John, as a soldier, knew rather a lot about. Only once before had he seen any indication of it in his friend – that terrible night at the pool. Yet even then, in such a dangerous situation, Sherlock had been cool and in control. This was something else entirely, an irrational and overpowering dread. Phobia, the complete antithesis to the logical reasoning that was Sherlock's constant driving force. Sentiment just wasn't part of his repertoire, or so John had thought.

Gradually, the interval between lightning and thunder became longer, as did the time between each bolt. Sherlock was still shaking, and his respiratory rate was unhealthily quick, but he no longer clung to John like a limpet in the intertidal zone. Keeping up the stroking, John chanced another attempt at rearranging their position. This time it worked, and he was able to scoot forward until they were sitting more parallel to each other, with Sherlock's head on John's shoulder.

'All right now, you're doing great,' he murmured into wet curls. 'It's okay, it's nearly over…'

Sherlock brought one hand away to swipe at his face. He drew a deep, shuddering breath, then another, and pulled back a little, his remaining hand sliding down John's body to rest at the small of his back.

John kept up his stream of 'Good, that's it, deep breaths,' turning to try and look at his face. All he could see was a mess of dark hair and some profile as Sherlock kept his head bowed. He sniffed loudly, then ran a trembling hand under his nose in a gesture that made him look about five. John's heart ached at the sight, making him draw Sherlock back into a tight, brief embrace. It should all have been more awkward, really; he should be questioning this body contact and worrying about what Sherlock maybe wanted, but all he felt was a sense of _right_, as if this was how it was supposed to go. And anyway, Sherlock didn't seem to be complaining.

When John released him, Sherlock pulled back a bit more and finally raised his head. His whole face was red and puffy and his eyes, when they met John's, were full of gratitude. Without thinking, John raised a hand to the side of Sherlock's head, his thumb wiping at the remains of tears. At first, Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, and John was about to pull away with an apology when they seemed to change their mind and fell shut instead. All the tension suddenly dropped away from Sherlock's face and a fresh tear fell from between closed lids to slide down John's thumb. John brushed it gently away, filled to the brim with compassion, belonging and love for this man who had just dropped all his formidable defences and put his trust in him.

Another low rumble of distant thunder made Sherlock wince, his hand clutching at John's jumper, but he calmed down again once it stopped. His breathing was getting back under control and he was now only shivering intermittently.

Opening his eyes, he met John's tender gaze. 'Thank you,' he whispered.

'You're welcome, Sherlock.'

Sherlock gave him a small smile, then slipped out of John's arms to lean against the side of the sofa. John wrapped his fingers around one clammy wrist to check his pulse. It was rather quick and weak, and John reached up to drag the throw off the armrest and wrap it around Sherlock as best he could, because he seemed to be far too cold. After-effect of the panic, lingering shock. Also, his robe had absorbed quite a lot of rain water from John's soaked clothes. John was freezing too, he realised.

'I've got to go put on something dry, all right? Is it okay if I leave you here for a bit?'

Sherlock nodded, wrapping the blanket more tightly around himself.

Fetching some dry clothes from his room, John hurried into the bathroom to hang his wet jeans and jumper up to dry. When he came back into the living room in sweatpants and his warmest jumper, Sherlock was still seated on the floor in much the same position. John took a moment to just look at him in this utterly vulnerable state before dropping to his haunches in front of him.

'I'm sure the sofa's a lot more comfortable if you're actually sitting _on_ it. Come on, up you go,' gently grabbing his arms through the blanket. Sherlock stood, a bit unsteadily, and allowed John to shepherd him to the couch. Once on it, he drew his legs up to his chest. John sat next to him, one leg under the other, and took his wrist again. He found the pulse had slowed to a steadier rhythm.

'Do you want anything? Tea?' When Sherlock didn't reply, he added, 'I could do with some tea, anyway. Be lucky not to catch cold after getting drenched like that… I'll get you a cup too, shall I?'

Sherlock nodded, just once; head up, head down, without looking up from his knees.

As he opened the fridge to take the milk out, John spied the blue Tupperware container completely untouched atop the spleen-in-a-box. Of course, it had been too much to hope that Sherlock would have eaten anything; he'd obviously spent the first half of the day worried sick about the impending storm. A quick review of the past few days provided John with Monday morning as the last time Sherlock ate anything, and jam on toast really wasn't much of a meal, anyway. He sighed to himself.

'No, I'll not eat anything now,' came Sherlock's unsteady voice from the next room. John shook his head in defeat. 'Quit looking so morose, it's unbecoming,' Sherlock added.

It was a long time since John had stopped being surprised at the way Sherlock could read his facial expressions without actually seeing them. Even now, so soon after a harrowing experience, his powers of deduction were apparently well up to par. It was a relief, truth be told, and John smiled faintly.

'That's more like it,' Sherlock approved from over on the sofa.

When John came back with their cups and a few biscuits on a tray, Sherlock had rearranged himself, his legs now stretched out along the sofa and covered by the throw blanket. John set the things down on the stack of random papers and – was that a machete? – on the table and handed Sherlock his cup.

'Sip that slowly, all right, or it might make a reappearance,' he instructed.

'Yes, Doctor,' Sherlock sighed, but he was smiling.

John regarded the legs taking up most of the sofa, considering his options, then lifted the blanket to sit down at the other end, mirroring Sherlock's position. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but made no comment as John threw the blanket back over both their legs and reached for his own cup.

They sipped their tea in silence for a while as the rain slowed to a drizzle against the windows. At one point, Sherlock drew a long breath through his nose, swallowing and clenching his jaw, and John gave him a knowing look.

'You okay?'

'This tea appears to be disagreeing with my gastrointestinal region,' Sherlock muttered.

'Yeah, suspected as much. That's what happens when you don't eat for days and then expend ridiculous amounts of energy shaking…'

His sentence petered out, because at the word _ridiculous_, Sherlock had thrown him an angry look. John was instantly contrite.

'Sorry, look, I didn't mean to imply that your reaction was ridiculous. There's nothing wrong with being afraid sometimes; it's perfectly normal…'

'I'm not _normal_!' Sherlock exclaimed in a voice of disdain.

'I know, I know. I'm sorry, Sherlock, really. Just… don't worry about it, okay? I'm not judging you.'

Sherlock regarded his tea and didn't respond, but John figured in this case a lack of response was probably a good thing. When angry, Sherlock always had lots of things to say. Also, his posture had relaxed somewhat again. John regarded him over the rim of his cup. Aside from the unhealthy pallor and lingering redness of his eyes and nose, he looked fine. His hands were more or less steady, and the leg John could feel against the full length of his own was sufficiently warm now. Good. Maybe the tea was helping after all.

He didn't consider the far more likely possibility that it was his own presence that was having such a restoring effect.

John set his cup down and reached for the biscuits. He took one and held the plate out to Sherlock, who eyed it as though the shortbread might harbour a clandestine plan to assault him somehow. John put the plate down on their legs.

'It's oatmeal raisin. Mrs Hudson made them. They'll be good for you, I promise. Come on, try a bite.'

Unenthusiastically, Sherlock reached out and picked one up. He nibbled at one corner of it as John scarfed his own in a few bites.

'Oh but that's excellent. Downright genius, our landlady!' He laughed at Sherlock's affronted expression. 'Well, you know what I mean. She's brilliant with ovens and such. Admit it, it's good!'

Sherlock nodded grudgingly. Pretty soon he had nibbled his way through the whole biscuit and was reaching for another. John tried to hide a satisfied smile and Sherlock told him not to bother.

* * *

After the plate and cups had been emptied and carefully replaced on the tottering tea tray, Sherlock whipped the throw off his legs and started manoeuvering himself off the sofa.

'Hey, where do you think you're going?' John demanded.

'I've got to get my phone.'

'I'll get it, you sit. Where is it?'

'Mantelpiece,' Sherlock sighed, reluctantly sitting back against the cushions. 'And you don't have to coddle me.'

'Fine, I'll stop once you stop looking like a ghost.'

'I look like nothing of the sort!'

'Yeah you do. You can't see your face, so you'll just have to go with my observations on this one.' John handed over the phone and Sherlock immediately set to work on it, his face intent. John contemplated resuming his earlier, immensely cosy seating but thought better of it. Best not push the boundaries any further. He picked up the tray instead and took it back to the kitchen to wash up.

Sherlock was still pecking away at his phone when John came back, dragging his armchair closer to the sofa. As he sat down, Sherlock drew his legs up to his chest again. The phone was trembling ever so slightly. Instantly concerned, John leaned forward in his chair.

'What?'

Sherlock didn't look at him as he spoke in a barely audible voice. 'There might be another one.'

'I'm sure there's nothing to worry…'

'There's one in Suffolk right now,' waving his phone wildly in front of John, 'and the wind only has to turn forty-one degrees to bring it here. It's not at all unlikely and yes, there is something to worry about!'

This last was directed right at John, but the look on Sherlock's face didn't match the anger in his voice. He looked blatantly terrified. John cast about for some way to placate him, discarding a half-dozen platitudes before settling on 'Let's not borrow trouble, though, shall we?' It was woefully inadequate, and Sherlock huffed in annoyance, turning his face to the wall and wrapping his arms around his legs. Not a minute of awkward silence went by before he picked up the phone again. His breathing had sped up, and John hated the sight of it.

'Sherlock, would you like… I've got some Lorazepam upstairs, from, you know… I can get you some, if you want?'

Sherlock's fingers paused their febrile movements for a second before he nodded. 'I'll be right back, then,' John promised.

The tablets were in his bedside cabinet, in a half full blister pack left untouched for over six months now. His therapist, if he ever saw her again, would be amazed that the life he was currently leading could have any kind of calming effect on him. Just more proof, should he need it, that ordinary people didn't understand. Only Sherlock seemed to – "Could be dangerous", indeed. That man had helped him in so many ways, and now he got to return the favour.

Making a detour to the kitchen for a glass of water, he strode purposefully towards the sofa. He sat on the edge of it and handed over the small round tablets. Sherlock swallowed them without even looking. John patted him lightly on one drawn-up knee before making to stand again, but Sherlock's voice halted him.

'You won't tell anyone?' He sounded so uncertain, and John took a second to mentally gape at this unwonted insecurity in his friend who normally knew everyone's thoughts and plans before they even knew them themselves.

'Of course not! Why would you even think that? You can always trust me, you know that, right?'

Sherlock nodded again, mutely. John wanted to take his hand or stroke his hair or something, but instead he rose to resettle at the other end of the couch. He wondered what had happened to scare Sherlock like this, and if no one had ever been there to comfort him before. He wondered if anyone knew that a common weather phenomenon did this to him. He wondered why Sherlock hadn't sought any help for it; therapy, drugs, something. Why did he –

'You're thinking so loudly Mrs Turner next door might hear you,' Sherlock interrupted.

'Sorry, I'm just…'

'Wondering why I'm astraphobic.' It was more of a statement than a question, and his voice held no reproach or censure.

'Well, yes. But you don't have to tell me. I mean, if you don't want to. It's fine.'

Sherlock just gave a half-shrug of "I know it's fine!" and, without raising his head, began in a vaguely hesitant voice: 'I got caught in a storm when I was eleven. I was out in a field examining a sheep that had died without any obvious cause, and I didn't see the clouds change. I obviously knew lightning strikes tall objects, so I ran into the woods nearby to avoid it – not the cleverest thing to do, but it seemed to beat the alternative.'

Sherlock shuddered at the memory, and John could almost picture the small, pale-eyed boy running for cover. 'It was the loudest thing I had ever heard,' Sherlock continued. 'It was right overhead. And then a tree was struck not ten yards from where I was standing. It caught on fire, but it was raining so hard that it was extinguished before it spread. I was…' He broke off, shaking his head. 'When I got home, Mummy scolded me for ruining my blazer. I wasn't planning to tell her, anyway.

'I returned to that tree the next day, and there was nothing left of it all the way down one side but charcoal. After that, I never went back to that meadow, and ever since, thunder has… unnerved me.' He looked embarrassed now. 'And it's not improved over time, but worsened. I've never told anyone about it – although Mycroft probably knows anyway, overbearing omniscient git that he is,' he finished with a small shrug.

'Thanks for telling me, then. Sometimes just talking about things like that can help, you know.'

'I've never found that.'

'You've not really had that many people to talk to, though, have you?' John said softly, almost to himself. Sherlock made a half-dismissive noise of reluctant agreement in his throat.

'Well, you've got me now, at any rate,' John added, 'and I'm not going anywhere.'

For the first time since that decidedly stupid comment about borrowing trouble, Sherlock raised his eyes and met John's. He didn't have to say anything, and John found that he couldn't speak either. Instead, he reached out a hand, and Sherlock did the same. They held onto each other in silence for a long while, until Sherlock's eyes drifted shut and his head dropped sideways to rest on the back of the sofa.

John carefully let go, picked up the phone and updated the weather service. The storm had dissipated somewhere over Cambridge by then, and warm shafts of afternoon sunlight were streaming through the windows of 221B.

* * *

They always watch the evening news. When the weather report comes on, John surreptitiously switches his focus to Sherlock, all suggestions of tea postponed until the maps have gone from the screen. At any mention of thunder, he takes the next day off work. Sherlock never says anything about it, but then some things don't have to be put into words.


End file.
